LVIII
The Spring sun has swathed us in its toga’d light.
O! why were we not born in Sybaris!
I smell Damascus roses, sharp iris,
See streets Lucanian, gay, thus by night:
Rich balconies of marble hid from sight
By tapestries and silks of Sybaris;
The peplus purpling, the bold chlamys;
Greeks ankleted in gems; while buskined bright
Soft-footed Asiatics come and go;
Women with pale eyelids powdered blue,
Upon their lips that smile the sphinxes knew;
Men calm of face as chiselled cameo,
All sauntering unto some love-bought bliss.
O! why were we not born in Sybaris!